Sometimes we run into Father Ryan outside, as we emerge from the side doors squinting in the daylight. She will take my arm then and talk to him cheerfully. He is always giving me nice looks because he thinks I am the good one. He never asks about Tomas. Father Ryan is white and pale and from Ohio, but he used to be a missionary in the Philippines, down in Mindanao, then later served as the Chaplain in Forbes Park, so around her he acts like a Filipino, all cheerful and talkative and politely smiling. The first time we ran into him I thought she was in a good mood the way she laughed, but after he went inside, she let go of my arm, and did not say a word on the way home.

II

Today Father Ryan calls me in to talk about my grades.

Gabe, he says. You were always a better student than your brother.

He has discarded the friendly Filipino manner he always adopts with my mother. He watches me behind his wooden desk and the chair beneath me feels hard, its front edge knifing into my legs. His room smells of old wood and dust, like pews, and the chair handles feel worn and oily. His face appears almost like a shadow with the bright window behind him, but you can make out the roughness of his features, made leathery from missionary work done beneath the blazing Philippine sun.

Do you have anything to say for yourself? he says.

This morning I found out I failed a math test, my best subject, which must be why he called me in.

I’m sorry.

I finger my jeans where they fray at my kneecaps, the loose whitewashed strands soft as moss, and try to think of other things. After a while he sighs and pushes a tissue box towards me and then faces away.

I do not take any tissues and turn aside for a moment and keep my eyes wide open. I think very carefully and hard about a pencil sketch he has of a saint on the wall and that seems to work. He senses this, and tosses the box aside.

You used to get good grades, Gabe.

I guess so.

Now you’ve had a C in English, and a D in religion. And now this F. An F, Gabe. He pauses, as if waiting for me to say something, but I do not. Is there anything you would like to tell me, Gabe?

No.

How are things at home?

Okay.

He studies me.

They are going all right with your brother?

Yeah.

And how is your mother?

She’s fine.

And your brother’s fine.

Yeah.

He nods to himself, his stiff white collar collapsing under his chin, which he then has to straighten.

And so you are saying there is no problem with your brother at home.